THE WISDOM OF AGE
The Secretary passed one of the worst nights of his life. His pride,
self-esteem, and youthful estimation of his abilities as a diplomat had
received a crushing blow. He told himself that he was not fit to copy
letters in an office, much less to undertake delicate negotiations in
which the honour of his country was involved. The conspirators had known
him for what he was, a conceited young ass, and had egregiously fooled
him to the top of his bent. They had regained the document without half
trying; even Kingsland, whose intellect he had looked down on, had
completely taken him in. It seemed as if he must die of shame when it
became known. He would be disgraced and turned out of the service with
ridicule. Then of his despair was born that resolution to _do_, which
sets all obstacles at naught, and succeeds because it declares the
possibility of the impossible.
He must retrieve himself, he must regain that letter, and hereafter his
self-reproaches were mingled with every scheme leading to its recovery,
that his brain could concoct.
He was downstairs soon after seven.
Entering the great hall, he found Lady Isabelle in sole possession, but
equipped to go out.
"Whither so early?" he said.
"I'm going away--that is--out."
"Away?" he queried, as he saw her eyes fill with tears, and noted that
she was closely veiled "Can I serve you?"
"No--yes," she replied, uncertain how to answer him. "Could I ask you to
do me a very great favour?"
"Most certainly."
"But it's something you won't like to do."
"Lady Isabelle," he said quietly, "we've been very good friends, and I
may tell you that I've a suspicion of what you intend to do this
morning. Won't you trust me, and allow me to help you in any way in my
power?"
"Yes," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "I will, because I'm sure
you mean what you say, and I'm in desperate straits. You remember the
answer I gave to a question of yours last evening?"
"That you did not care for me--yes."
"I might have added," she said shyly, casting down her eyes, "that I
cared for someone else."
"Lieutenant Kingsland?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure you're making a wise choice, Lady Isabelle?" he asked,
feeling that he ought not to allow this state of affairs to continue
when he was almost certain that the young officer was practically a
criminal, whom it might be his duty to have arrested any day, yet
prevented by his instructions from preferring any charges against him
to Lady Isabelle.
"Don't, please," she said. "You misjudge him."
"I hope I do."
"You do not understand. How should you? Have you ever seen him in his
uniform? He is a picture, and you know," sinking her voice, "his family
dates from the Conquest."
The Secretary shrugged his shoulders. He'd had enough of warning people
for their own good, so he contented himself with remarking that a
disregard for the Decalogue seemed compatible with an unbroken descent
from the Norman robber.
"Now you're cynical," she cried, "but I shan't argue with you, for I
love him, and we're to be married this morning in the chapel. Everything
has been arranged, and in fifteen minutes I shall be his wife."
"That's very interesting," said Stanley. "But where do I come in?"
"I need your help."
"Oh, I see. I suppose that if I'd any real interest in your welfare, I
ought to refuse, but as you'd do as you please in any event, I'm quite
at your service."
"Thanks. Mamma will be here presently. She's announced her intention of
attending early service, and if she does----"
"She might interrupt another, and that would be awkward."
"Dreadfully. She does not wish me to marry Lieutenant Kingsland--I think
she would rather I married you."
"Is she so bitter? Well, make your own mind easy, I won't ask her."
"But you must."
"What!!!"
"Nothing short of a proposal would deter her from going to service."
"But, I thought you----!"
"Oh, I'll promise to be unavailable by the time you've finished,-- Sh!
she's coming. Remember your promise to help me, and wish me luck."
"With all my heart," he cried, as she vanished through the door, and the
Dowager entered the hall.
Stanley wished the old lady good-morning which she received with
chilling condescension, and neither of them spoke for some moments; a
precious gain of time, during which her Ladyship put on her gloves,
rearranged her cloak, unrolled and re-rolled her sunshade, paced the
long hall, alternated glimpses out of the windows by glances up the
great stairway, and betrayed every sign of impatient waiting for a tardy
companion. The Secretary stood watching her and counting the minutes,
which seemed to pass unusually slowly.
Finally the Dowager's patience got the better of her reserve; she faced
round and demanded if he had seen her daughter.
"Yes," he replied, very deliberately. "I believe she was in the hall
when I came down."
"Believe. Do you not know, Mr. Stanley?"
"I certainly caught a glimpse of her," he admitted.
"But she's not here now."
The Secretary made a careful inspection, from his point of vantage on
the hearthstone, of every cobweb and corner of the great apartment, and
in the end found himself forced to agree with the Marchioness'
statement.
"Where has she gone, then?" was her next question.
"Really," he replied, "it is not your daughter's custom to keep me
posted as to her movements."
"But you've eyes, haven't you?" she retorted, testily. "At least you
know how she left this hall."
The Secretary sighed as he saw the end of his little manoeuvre.
"She went out at the front door," he said.
"Why couldn't you have told me that to begin with?"
"You didn't ask me."
"Don't be so distressingly literal. I'm late for the service as it is.
My daughter has probably misunderstood our arrangements, and is waiting
for me at the church." And the Marchioness showed unmistakable signs of
preparing to leave.
Even allowing a most liberal leeway to the maundering old parson,
Stanley knew he could not yet have reached that passage beginning, "All
ye that are married," and ending in "amazement," for which there is a
canonical time-allowance of at least five minutes; it therefore behoved
him to play his last trump.
The Dowager, like a hen preening her feathers, had given the last
touches to her garments, and was already half-way to the door, when the
Secretary, stepping forward, arrested her progress by remarking:
"I feel that I owe you some explanation of what occurred last night,
Lady Port-Arthur."
"Perhaps it's as well that you should explain," she replied, pausing at
the door, "though I should have supposed it would have been unnecessary
after our last interview."
"I've not forgotten it."
"You appeared to have done so last evening."
"Really, you know," he said, piqued by her rudeness, "I couldn't refuse
to escort your daughter down to dinner when my hostess requested me to
do so."
"If Mrs. Roberts so honoured you as to permit you to take in Lady
Isabelle, naturally----"
"Yes, that is the way I should have put it."
"I do not pretend to say how you should have expressed yourself, but I
wish to point out that your place at dinner was no excuse for your place
afterwards."
"Oh, in the conservatory. Well, you see, the fact is, I was telling Lady
Isabelle----"
"Yes, Mr. Stanley. What were you telling my daughter?"
He glanced at the clock. Seven minutes had elapsed since the Dowager
entered the hall. He hoped they would shorten the service.
"I was asking her a question," he continued.
"Well?"
The Dowager was far below zero.
"I asked her if she cared for me."
"And she naturally referred you to her mother."
"She told me a few minutes ago that you were coming here," he replied,
noticing that his companion's mercury was rapidly rising.
"I'm glad," continued the Marchioness, "that you've taken so early an
opportunity to explain what I could only consider as very singular
conduct. For dear Isabelle's sake I'll consent to overlook what has
occurred in the past, and if you can make suitable provision----"
Five minutes only remained before the time of early service. He thought
his income large enough to fill the interval, and interrupted with:
"The woman I marry would have----," and then he told the Dowager all
about it, in sterling and decimal currency.
"I think," said that lady, with a sigh of relief at the end of his
narration, which, it may be remarked, took the best part of half an
hour, "I think dear Isabelle's happiness should outweigh any social
disparity, and that we may consider her as good as married."
"Yes," he replied, remembering that the church bells had stopped ringing
some fifteen minutes before. "Yes, your Ladyship, I think we may."
* * * * *
A few minutes later Stanley found himself in one of the secluded
stretches of the park, breathing in the fresh keen morning air with a
new sense of delight, after the inherent stuffiness of the Dowager.
He trusted that Lady Isabelle would break the news to her mother at
once, and get it over before he returned; but even then he had an
unpleasant interview before him. As an accepted suitor the Marchioness
would owe him an apology, which he could not avoid accepting. He hoped
he could do the heart-broken and disappointed lover, whose feelings were
tempered by the calm repression of high gentility. It was the role he
had figured for himself, and he thought it excellent.
All his ideas, however, were centred on the problem of recovering the
lost document; some means of entry to that secret tower there must be,
and he must find it. He could not, of course, be certain that the paper
contained Darcy's instructions; but it was admittedly important, and its
loss had done him an injury which could only be atoned for by its
recovery.
A light footfall interrupted his meditations, and looking up, he saw,
standing before him, half screened by the bushes which she was holding
back, to give her free access to the main path which he was pursuing,
the graceful figure and sad, sweet face of Madame Darcy.
A shade of annoyance passed over his brow as he remembered the scene of
the night before, and his companion was quick to interpret his mood.
"Ah, Mr. Stanley," she said, "you've seen my husband."
"Yes," he admitted. "He came up to the Hall last night."
"I hope he didn't make himself a nuisance," she said.
"Well, I'm afraid he did rather," he returned, and added, "but it's
nothing," for he felt that it would be impossible for him to tell her
what had really occurred.
"I'm so sorry," she cried. "I only bring you trouble."
"No, indeed," he hastened to assure her, "far from it. These little
talks with you are a positive rest and refreshment to me. I hate this
playing the spy."
"I suppose it won't do for me to ask how you're progressing, and what
you've found out?"
"I've found out that I've made an awful fool of myself," he said. "Mr.
Riddle----"
"I could have told you who Mr. Riddle was yesterday," she said.
The Secretary shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm afraid that would have been of little use."
"Be very careful," she warned him. "There are others besides Mr. Riddle
whom you have to look out for."
Could it be possible, he asked himself, that she suspected her husband?
Aloud, he said:
"Whom do you mean?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "It's not for me to belie my own sex," she
retorted, "but----"
"You mean there is a woman in the case?"
She nodded.
The Secretary drew himself up very stiffly.
"It's an impossibility that we will not discuss," he said. "Your
prejudices mislead you."
Yet, in spite of his apparent calmness, he was greatly disturbed, for
this was the second time that day that doubt had been cast upon Miss
Fitzgerald.